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2k7+58 A.D.

The white glow of the streetlights left little to the imagination. No blemish was shrouded in shadow. No folds of flesh hidden away. Bridún O’Kurzajewska was more than a few bumps below an athletic physique. She couldn’t afford the surgery for a better face, but she was confident enough that she’d get the ride tonight.

Scrolling through the night’s events on her retina display she saw her hunzos were pre-prinking in the town square. Even though she knew the way, she pulled up a destination marker on Eyemaps.

As she tiptoed in her silvery heels and foil dress down the road, a British Military truck drove by her. Evening patrols. A few woops and whistles came from the soldiers in the back, she returned the compliment with a quick flash of her tits and a wave. Across the road, a middle aged man – about 76 years old by Bridún’s estimation – shook his head at her and hollered, “You shouldn’t be fraternisin’ with the enemy like that, young one. It’s dangerous”. “Go fuck yourself ya gobcunt” she hollered back at him in her shrill voice. “I’m just warning ya. Be careful who sees you doing shite like that. Decent tits btw, 6/10”. He sent her a wink on EyeChat. She blocked him and kept walking, shrilling back at him “You’re so old you fukcunt I bet ya were born before we had internet in our eyes”.

Were it not for the climate control in her dress, she would have been freezing her 6/10 tits off. She intoned as much to her hunzos when she met up with them, but got no answer. Shakeeira O’Driscoll. Renault Carrol. Hermione Ní Clearaigh. Seventeen years of age, all sitting in a circle in a set of benches in the middle of the town square. Between them they had 58 cans of government mandated 2.7% cider and some anti-anxiety meds. All three of them had the pale-white glaze in their eyes of being jacked in to EyeChat.

Bridún sat down next to them, stuck one end of a straw into her mouth, another end in in a can of cider and jacked in. In the Cloud she sat down with her hunzos in a circle, not unlike the one they were sitting in in Real space.

Jacking out, they made awkward small talk as the four of them pounded the remaining cans between them. Hermione produced a naggin of full strength vodka. “Look what I nicked from my Da!”. The hunzos were in awe, a naggin of full strength cost 55 pounds. They divvied it up, mixed it with cider, and pounded that too.

Half cut, they stumbled to the Abbey. The bouncers scanned the fake ID chips in their arms. As far as they knew, Bridún and her hunzos were all 27.
The Abbey was jointed. The DJ was playing all the modern classics. Nicky Michaels. The Birdmen. GH9. He also played the 100th anniversary Advanced DubHouse remix of Honey Don’t by the Beatles. The girls popped their anti-anxiety meds and went to the bar to get a drink. A round of Purple Puppies.

Dancing away, they ran in to the lads from the barracks. Six-something tall, tight haircuts and even tighter t-shirts. Bridún EyeChatted with one of them – Trevor.

Trevor40: “Orite luv, how r u?”

Bridiepie48: “Nt bd asdllwf U a solder ya?”

Trevor40: “Yeah I am J. Dat a problem?”

Bridiepie48: “asdnga nt at all qrqaaaqJ”

Trevor sent Bridún a picture of his erect penis.

Trevor40: “U wna go sumware mre priv8?”

Bridiepie48: “Ya 😛 😛 😛 ”

Bridún and Trevor left for somewhere more private.

Across the street, 17 year old Sean O’Callaghan watched the throng of people in the Abbey with disgust. His third-party eye software zoomed in on the faces in the crowd. In his extension port he had an long-range NFC reader. Even from 40 meters away, he could access the ID chips of everyone in the Abbey.

This wasn’t like the old days that he’d read about in the “unofficial” history books. No more collateral damage, not to their own people. When he found the people he was looking for, he jacked in to his encrypted chat channel and tagged the targets. They would appear to the rest of his team with big red “X”s over their heads. No collateral damage.

Sean trotted past the bouncers into the Abbey. He met up with three other young men who shouldn’t have been in there. Four red “X”s had just appeared in their vision.

Downstairs, on a toilet in the men’s bathroom, Bridún was sitting on Trevor’s lap, aggressively jamming her tongue into Trevor’s mouth while he played with her 6/10’s. They were jacked in to each other, and didn’t hear the screams upstairs. Trevor wasn’t watching his friends list. He didn’t see three of his mate’s profile pictures go black.

Outside the door of the stall, Sean aimed his 3D printed copy of a Chinese assault rifle slightly under the big red “X” on the other side of the door. He squeezed the trigger until the “X” disappeared. No collateral damage, he thought to himself as he dashed to his exit point, blood pooling on the floor.